


You make me want to be a better man

by TaurusDoodles



Series: Hetalia fankid short stories [5]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Original Character(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:27:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27418753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaurusDoodles/pseuds/TaurusDoodles
Summary: Arthur began to spiral. The ceiling resembled the floor. The floor was now the wall. The wall was— why the wall everywhere now! He was walking on those walls. The walls, those unending walls, elevated. They bumped and jumped and beeped and— they stopped.They stopped on a cushy surface. A soft warm place. So…. Nice. Things went black. Arthur fell into that black.-------------Arthur struggles.Rated M for language and mentioned alcohol abuse.
Relationships: England/Female France (Hetalia)
Series: Hetalia fankid short stories [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1781152
Kudos: 5





	You make me want to be a better man

A man— rippled, distorted,  _ tired _ — gazed into the glass of tawny liquid with heavy eyes. No's and do-its ran in his mind over and over and over and  _ over _ ; nonstop like a spinning record with no sign of stopping. His thoughts were running, running, running,  _ racing _ as if they were in a marathon.  _ A never ending marathon. _ Shaking. Drenched in his own sweat. His legs bounced. His hands ached. His eyes hurt. His head—  _ oh his head, his head, his head _ . It felt as if it were in the clouds. He doesn't even remember picking up the bottle. Pouring the scotch into the glass. Sitting there. Staring at it. How long now? Two hours. Two hour staring contest with a goddamn glass of liquid life ruiner. What even led him to this?

Margaret Clarke. That's who.

Arthur's life was going smoothly before she came around. He was doing well in therapy. Less fights with the wife. The kids were doing great in school. But after Ms. Clarke introduced herself, nothing but a string of bad luck has occurred. Françoise lost her best story, the one that could land her a promotion. Áine got into a fight with Trudy Buyers next door, actual fists flying everywhere but no charges. Gabriel got a day of detention for starting a food fight. And…. Scotch. Here. Right now.

That morning went great. He and Françoise had managed to beat the morning traffic. They got the kids off to school on time for once. Françoise had time to spare to have a nice second breakfast in the parking lot of a McDonalds. They talked. They laughed. They had fun. Oh they had so much fun. They hadn't had alone time since Gabriel was born. Even when in a van in a McDonalds public parking lot for god's sake they had unbelievable fun just being themselves— not "mum" or "dad". But two individuals who can freely talk about the grocery list without a thirteen year old yelling about how she needed new uniform shoes because her's have mysteriously gained a hole through the bottom; which had absolutely  _ nothing _ to do with the missing drill. It was nice. Relaxing even.

And then Margaret Clarke walked in.

He was at the register. The height of lunch rush. A bundle of bananas were stiffly set on the counter. Arthur looked up, a strawberry blonde teen girl in a highschool uniform Arthur hadn't seen in years stood there nervous as can be. She then took a couple packets of gum and set them there, next to the bundle of bananas. Arthur rang her up. She was silent. He was about to announce the total price when the girl quickly grabbed four toblerone bars and slammed them down, pursing her lips as she looked away. Arthur scanned the items one by one. After the third bar the girl broke down, blurting out her name.

Margaret Clarke.

She explained she didn't want any of these items, it was her excuse to see  _ him _ . She then pulled out an old beaten leather bound journal from her side bag. Arthur's heart began to beat out of his chest— _ ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom _ — "O". That letter, the fancy letter carved crudely with a knife. The simple letter with the loop-dee-loop on that old beaten up leather bound journal; thick with memory, thick with turmoil, thick with trauma, and thick with  _ pain _ . The girl with the strawberry blonde hair, striking green eyes— suddenly it made sense.  _ It made so much sense _ .

But Arthur wanted none of it.

She opened the book. Several loose letters sat inside. A photograph stood out. In that photograph three men were shown— himself with shorter, neater hair and in army garments. An older man with deep brown hair that stuck up this way and that, uniform as clean as a whistle. And a strawberry blonde. A strawberry blonde that he'd gotten so close to he swore he would marry him, even if it would forever be illegal he would find a way. After the war they'd flee to Holland or Austria, or or or—  _ somewhere _ ! Somewhere they could be together without sneaking around their families. Where no one knows them. Where they can start anew.

Oliver Clarke. That was his name. He liked scotch. "My Scottish roots demand it!" He'd say with a joyful laugh full of life. A corny snort would follow. They were best friends, as they called it. Calling it anything else was… It was too much.

Too much.

This was too much to remember.

Arthur shook as Margaret explained she found the journal in her father's things, whatever the army had sent back to the family. She went through it all. She wanted to know the father she didn't meet. She had to be seventeen, eighteen perhaps. Of course Arthur was aware Oliver had a wife, Kristina Clarke, but he wasn't aware he was a father. Was Oliver ever aware? Kristina hardly wrote. Of course Oliver hardly wrote either. He was what the kids these days call "ghosting her". He was to divorce Kristina after the war so that he and Arthur could be together.

But that never happened.

Arthur began to spiral. The ceiling resembled the floor. The floor was now the wall. The wall was—  _ why the wall everywhere now _ ! He was walking on those walls. The walls, those unending walls, elevated. They bumped and jumped and beeped and—  _ they stopped _ .

They stopped on a cushy surface. A soft warm place. So….  _ Nice _ . Things went black. Arthur fell into that black.

Hours later he's woken up by his worried wife who had gotten a call from his worried brother. He told her he was fine with a crack in his voice. The kids were home, doing homework in the living room. He sat there for a few hours until supper was finished. He listened to all the awful events that happened that day, leaving his on mute. He laid in bed later that evening, next to his beautiful wife. Then he felt it. Tucked under his pillow was something hard. He reached under there and pulled out something cold and smooth.

Now here he is. Flipping a plastic chip his wife bought online back in April to commemorate his one year of sobriety. And yet here he was. A coward. A fucking coward. Going back on his goddamn word. Screwing this family over. And all for what? Nothing but a damn taste. A taste of the past. From when things were simpler. From when he and Oliver came across a small bottle of even the cheapest scotch in the camp and they'd down what they could in honor of those who'd fallen and those who would.

With a trimmer in his hand, Arthur picked up the glass.

"Dad?" Arthur jumped. His chest pounding worse than before. He turned halfway around. At the doorway stood his son. Confused, Arthur twisted all the way, facing the child. "Gabriel? What are you doing up so late, son?"

He shifted in place, avoiding Arthur's eyes. "I feel sick. I couldn't sleep."

"Sick?" Gabriel nodded. He wrapped his arms around his stomach. "You feel like you're going to throw up? Want me to make you some tea? It'll settle your stomach."

"Yeah. Tea is great. I'm sick enough for tea." He gnawed the inside of his cheek raw. ".... _ and sick enough for no school tomorrow _ ." Oh. "Ah," Arthur smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. "Well sounds like you've got the elusive bug known as  _ faking it _ ." Arthur chuckled.

Gabriel stood there, still looking away. "....no." Shaking his head. Arthur nodded, saying yes.

He sighed. He moved the forgotten scotch aside and pat the empty stool next to his. "C'mere lad. Let's talk." Gabriel obeyed. He climbed onto the stool, the wooden furnishing wobbling under the new weight. "I'm sick dad. That's all." Gabriel ran the untied drawstrings through his fingers. His foot went in and out from under the stool, swaying in a comfortable enough rhythm for the boy.

"You still have to go, Gabe. Take responsibility for your actions." Arthur's thoughts strayed away to what Fran would do after he'd confess to his relapse. Much worse whether or not his sponsor, a kindly old man willing enough to put up with him, would drop him after hearing of his weakness tonight. But he'll take responsibility. He'll be the bigger man. He'll give his son an example to follow.

"I'm sorry, dad." Gabriel mumbled. Arthur sunk. He hated seeing his children without a smile on their face. Arthur pulled his boy into a gentle hug, Gabriel wrapping his arms around his father. "Chin up, lad. Life's not fair, I know. It's just one day though. You'll survive. Then it'll all be in the past. Lesson learned. Well you'll still be grounded for three more days but you know..." Gabriel nodded.

Then he pulled away. His thick brows pulled together, his green eyes boring holes into other green eyes. "You lied." He said. Arthur's heart dropped. Ten years old but very observant. Just like his mother. When Gabriel looked he looked everywhere, his eyes a wandering vagabond searching for information.

Arthur sputtered. He had no response. Gabriel began to tear up. He didn't want to see his father that way again. It hurt him. It hurt Áine. It hurt Françoise. How could he go back to something that almost killed him? "You've got the wrong idea." Arthur croaked. He began to shake, trembling there in his seat. "Well I mean— I did intend— but I— I— Gabe, luv—" Arthur stammered. Gabriel wasn't having any of it. "You lied to us! You  _ lied _ !" He stormed off, running to his room away from his father. Far enough away to avoid whatever was to come. He'll gladly go to school, to detention, if it meant he could avoid hearing the news of Arthur being in hospital or worse—  _ dead _ .

"Gabriel!" Arthur shouted after him. He almost tripped over standing up. "Gabe! Gabe wait— son— son—  _ son of a bitch _ !" He growled, his arm swinging, sending the bottle and glass down crashing to the floor.

Arthur fell to his knees. Tears began to spill. The regret set in.  _ He only thought about it _ but the regret was  _ still _ there. "Oh dear lord," He sobbed, dropping to his knees. "What have I done?  _ What the hell have I done _ !?"

The rest of the lights flicked on. But everything was numb. The anxious shouting of his name. Françoise pulling him into a firm embrace. He felt nothing. He just sat there in his own tears and regret and  _ self hatred _ , his wife guiding him through it all with a soothing hand, reassuring words.

**Author's Note:**

> Quick ramblings, sorry. You can skip if you want.
> 
> Sorry this is a bit depressing and very heavy topic wise. I noticed all the stories I've written so far(there are a few unpublished stories I'm still contemplating on publishing tbh) are pretty happy and up lifting ending wise so I thought "Hey! Why not fix that!" And here we are. My goal with these short stories, and this AU as a whole, was to explore different family dynamics— families that struggle to stay together due to addiction of any kind do exist. In canon, England is an alcoholic or at least struggles with alcohol in some way so thats how I've written him in this AU. Hes currently a recovering alcoholic which can be hell for the loved ones sometimes. And I wanted to expand on that idea.  
> I was honestly very excited to bring up Oliver again! In the first mention, I didn't know how to implement the more intimate nature of Arthur's and Oliver's relationship. And yes, he technically IS 2p!England but that fact isn't important nor is the popular personality traits associated with the 2p. I'd like to write more about Oliver in this AU so I CAN expand on his personality better but I dont plan on ever writing about Arthur's military days— all the stories will involve the kids in some way or another, even if it is more centered around the parents. So all Fruk family stories will be post army retirement.  
> I apologize in advance if it seems like I'm romanizing alcoholism and PTSD— that is not my intention. I'm trying my best to write realistically, especially with different perspectives. In this perspective it's Arthur struggling. If I ever write a sequel to this story to conclude it in some way, I'd do it in Gabriel's perspective. I'd expand on how hurt he is. Sometimes writing fiction is about writing realistically too.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! ^^


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